


Syke! Life is Awesome!

by JD (reddon)



Category: Heathers (1988)
Genre: F/M, M/M, The 80s were horrible, also everyone dies, do not let fictionkin write fanfiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 06:24:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2722034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reddon/pseuds/JD
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Apparently, Heather doesn't like Drano slushies. Apparently, JD is having second thoughts about making them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. There's Gonna Be A Party When The Wolf Comes Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Freddie and Jericho](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Freddie+and+Jericho).



> This is not quite fitting to either of the defined Heathers-verses, but it is leaning movieverse (see the dates) and I am not a fan of the musical.
> 
> The list of things I could provide content warnings for in this fic is longer than my arm, though for the most part it's the same things that exist in Heathers as is.

**Jason Dean**

_January 4th, 1988_

_“There's bound to be a ghost at the back of your closet_

_No matter where you live,_

_There'll always be a few things, maybe several things,_

_That you're going to find really difficult to forgive.”_

\- The Mountain Goats, “Up the Wolves”

They called it Defiance County. Liked the name.

He was out of the car, I was sitting with my legs out of the side, chain-smoking and staring up at the grey and miserable skies. The house itself seemed plenty nice, but I was not in a mood to search it; I felt like I was some kind of deranged policeman, breaking in without a warrant. I was loosely clutching a notepad full of barely-comprehensible writings that were my second-class attempt at redoing Kerouac, writing the Great American Novel for the 1980s. I should have been living Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

But hey, if there's one thing I've counted on this psychotic, sickening, undeserving universe to always do, it's make me fall short.

I always found it appealing to act as if I lived on the road, but I never really did. I could stay in a place for a week, I could stay for a year. Longer stays produced more interesting stories. I killed a man once. He was my boyfriend, we were 14, he was descended from a long line of cocaine dealers, but I suppose that's not the story I'm here to tell; I'm describing to you how soulless the sky over Ohio is, how many useless fucking cornfields we drove through on my way here.

Sherwood, Ohio, population roughly fifteen thousand if you don't count the students, was a place of unbecoming contradiction. It was the site of Remington University, the Midwestern answer to Tufts and one of the best party schools in the nation. It was a mad plutocracy ran by the Duke-Remingtons. It was a fucking backwater drowning in uselessness and small-town insanity. It was the exact place I did not want to be, it was the exact place I had ended up.

He yelled out something I didn't bother to process the exact words of. I grabbed my things from the car and sauntered into our new home.


	2. Killing Fields of Fire to a Congress of Ravens

**Veronica Sawyer**

_January 8th 1988  
_

_"We're all fighting growing old,_

_We're all fighting growing old,_

_In the hopes_

_Of a few minutes more_

_To get, get on Saint Peter's list,_

_But you need to lower your standards,_

_Because it's never getting any better than this."_

\- Fall Out Boy, "Rat a Tat"

Oh, the humanity! I feel like the distressed reporter of the Hindenburg explosion, trying to explain something so horrible it can no longer be explained. High school itself is really a slow-motion destruction of the psyche, and I've watched it happen to all my peers -- not to say that those that are horrible people weren't horrible people from the start. The jocks, geeks, and popular kids have been in some vague assortment since kindegarten, and yet as I stare upon the second half of my junior year, I realize it's all gotten far, far worse.

And I, your innocent-looking narrator, have been the direct cause of several of these crimes against humanity; I am Heather Chandler's right-hand woman, with all the baggage that implies. I may simply look like a sixteen-year-old girl of apparently startling attractiveness (though I've never seen it in myself) and a biting, sarcastic sense of humour, but I am the Beta Bitch of Westerburg High School, and I will someday be forced to pay for my sins.

I'm not even particularly religious, you know.

We crowd around the table in the middle of the cafeteria, the table of the Heathers, the Queen Bees. To sit at this table makes you a goddess, and I would gladly sell my divinity to the highest bidder if it could clear my conscience, but no matter how many would kill to be me I can only be myself. Heather Chandler, the mythic bitch, the blonde bombshell riding Billy Idol's guitar, is to my left; her 5'7" frame dwarfs mine (God, I'm practically a dwarf) and, while she is not the tallest at the table, she certainly appears to be in terms of sheer power. I am next to her, resplendent in blue and black, a tight grip on the clipboard that has been passed to me and that I am on executive orders not to look at yet. On the other side of the table sits Heather McNamara, the cheerleader, the one who flies off to New York to do modelling, the one who I'm not convinced has a personality outside of perfectly manicured popularity; Heather Duke comes last, ginger and waifish, her cheekbones protruding oddly out of her face -- we wonder if she can even digest food anymore -- and her posture demure, her popularity secure only because she is one of the Duke-Remingtons and Sherwood would be destroyed were she not worshipped. Heather Duke always says she wants to be president someday, and we laugh behind her back. I wonder if I'm a hypocrite.

Heather Chandler clears her throat, grabbing the clipboard back from me. "Lunchtime poll."

"What is it this time?" I put another tater tot in my mouth.

"Yeah, Heather, what's the poll?" Heather Duke leans over the table as Heather McNamara fixes her hair.

"Goddammit, Heather, you were with me in study hall when I thought of it." Her lip curled visibly.

"I forgot."

"Such a pillowcase." She shook her head dismissively and I caught her eye.

"That couldn't be that weirdo idea you were talking about over the phone last night, isn't it?" I crack, knowing that one would get me beheaded if I wore yellow or green.

"It's genius. It's an inner view into people's psyches."

"Can't argue with that." I catch the gaze of a boy from a table in the corner, an unfamiliar yet attractive face.

He sits alone, if you don't count Windbreaker Kid a few chairs away, but even then they aren't really in close enough proximity. He's pale, his hair dark, resplete in a trenchcoat and a maddening, dark kind of air about him. He catches my look back and smiles slightly, though it doesn't quite seem genuine. I rise to my feet with Heather and the clipboard. Time to make the rounds.


	3. All I Ever Wanted Was The World

**Heather Chandler**

_January 8th 1988_

_"Fill the void up with celluloid,_

_Take a picture, I'm with the boys,_

_Get what I want 'cause I asked for it,_

_Not because I'm really that deserving of it,_

_Living life like I'm in a play,_

_In the limelight I want to stay,_

_I know I've got a big ego,_

_I really don't know why it's such a big deal, though."_

\- Marina and the Diamonds, "Primadonna"

Some people call me a princess, and they're wrong. I'm a queen.

Queen Heather Marie Chandler, it's got a wonderful ring to it, don't you agree? If you saw me, you'd know I deserve the title. I'm the picture of feminine beauty. Model height, honey-coloured hair, biggest tits in the school, never gets a zit, amber eyes that glint with mystique. Sometimes people laugh at me because I'm immodest, but really, they're just jealous. I _know_ I'm better than you, why would I need to play to your feelings?

I'm worshipped at Westerburg, and I'm only a junior. My boyfriend's a sophomore -- at college. David's a Remington man, a future leader of America. Tall, dark, and handsome. I have no doubt I'll be spending the rest of my life with him, but honestly, if he turns out to be so stupid as to leave me, I have my pick of the pack. Boys kill each other to touch me. I miss the single life a little, I got even more attention than I do now.

But I seek something beyond adolescent idiocy. I want sophistication, intelligence, charisma, just as much as I want status and physical attractiveness. Not like that bitch Heather McNamara. She's dating _Ram Sweeney_. Sure he's the linebacker and he's got a damn good career in college football ahead of him, but he's just so...boorish. She talks all the time about how sweet and wonderful he is and it's all I can do to stop myself puking.

And Heather Duke? She doesn't even _have_ a man. She can't raise her voice for two fucking seconds to even talk to one. I think she might be a little retarded. She spent a long time in the hospital in freshman year, when her anorexia was really bad. She was completely skin and bones. They said her BMI was below 12, she could have died any second. I'm pretty sure she damaged her brain somehow. She's just so annoying. I wish she wasn't named Heather. I wish she was her stupid middle name, Destiny. What destiny? Heather Duke doesn't have a fucking future.

Then there's Veronica. The odd name out. I wish she could switch names with one of those two losers. She's still basically a Brownie, a Girl Scout Cookie, still wishes she was friends with that useless loser Betty Finn, but if she was a Heather from birth she'd be a princess. She'd be the heir to my throne. It's a fucking waste. She's beautiful, almost. She could grow out her hair a little, maybe dye it, she's so short that all of her features look a little off, and she can't accessorize for shit, but three of those can be fixed. (How can someone even be 4'8" and no longer growing?)

Still, she's better than the alternative, and she rises to her feet alongside me, holding that red clipboard.

We glide across the cafeteria, stopping at every table, equal-opportunity. I can barely hide my disgust at all the lowlives I'm around. These people don't _deserve_ my presence. I accidentally let my eyes wander in the direction of a nerd and he begins shrieking about how Heather just looked right at him. Pathetic.

Still, we're meant to be at their table next.

I raise an eyebrow, questioning their horrible sense of fashion, as Veronica's voice rings out.

"No, seriously, I'd probably go to Egypt...with a girl," mumbles the braces-wearing buffoon who I accidentally looked at.

A fat geek chortles. "Taking a hooker to the pyramids on the last day of mankind!"

"Geez, forget it." He looks hurt. Deserves it.

"What about you, Rodney?" Rodney, Veronica? _Rodney?_ How do you know these people's names?

Rodney, perhaps the ugliest, boniest, and worst-looking of all those useless scum, exchanges glances with his group as if telling them he was telling the truth when saying a Heather knew his name. Pathetic. Pathetic. "I'd change my life. New clothes, new haircut, new house, new home."

I couldn't bear to do anything but burst into derisive laughter. "How sad! Blowing all your cash on two days of trying to be hip."

Veronica, astonished, tugs on my arm and pulls me away from the table. I hiss subconsciously.

"God, if you're going to openly be a bitch..." she begins once we're out of earshot. I interrupt her by once again laughing raucously. Veronica, though, is transfixed by something off in the distance -- oh, it's the new boy. I hadn't gotten a good look at him yet. Somewhat attractive, though that trenchcoat wasn't doing him any favours.

We're almost back at our table, though, and Heather McNamara manages to break Veronica out of her trance.

"God, scan on Martha Dumptruck."

Martha, Martha, Martha. Fat bitch. She had to be at least three hundred pounds, probably more, and she was short to boot. Girl looked like a circus freak even on merits of body alone, her hair was some kind of helmet-esque monstrosity, and her fashion sense couldn't even be called that. We loved to torment her. Veronica is wonderful at handwriting forgery, so we used that to our benefit -- scrawled a fake love letter from Kurt Kelley and put it on her lunch tray. Genius!

"This is the part I hate," I moan to Veronica. "I'd say we're about twenty minutes from major humiliation. Come on, let's go." I drag her away before she realizes what's happened.

***

"Damn you, Heather!" Veronica exclaims, sitting on the steps at the back of the school. "Deep down, all teenagers are the same. Didn't you see The Breakfast Club?"

"Yes, and it was a great movie, Veronica, but it wasn't real. Just look at me -- I look great. I'm the girl on TV and in the music videos, in the commercials. I'm the blonde in the bikini on the horse holding a Pepsi. I can advertise for Crest -- Betty can't. Quasi-fat, goody-goody bitch. Nobody would buy Crest, it'd be stained with loserness, and no one wants that on their teeth. If I let losers stain me, I've wasted all my potential. You're wasting your potential. Veronica, you're staining yourself with losers."

She seems to see a bit of truth in my words. We exchange a grin; her end is hesitant.

"Come on," I continue. "Let's go ask that loser what she'd do with a million dollars."

We make our way back into the cafeteria, and I see her catch the new kid's gaze again.


	4. Rejoice, The Sky's Fucking Falling

**Heather Duke**

_8th January 1988_

_"Rejoice despite the fact this world will hurt you,  
_

_Rejoice despite the fact this world will kill you,_

_Rejoice despite the fact this world will tear you to shreds,_

_Rejoice because you're trying your best."_

\- Andrew Jackson Jihad, "Rejoice"

When I'm writing essays, I like to start sentences with 'Namely...'. It's a pun, talking about what my name means for my life.

I am a Heather and a Duke-Remington, and too many people have made it all too clear that I deserve to be neither. The world is a horrible place and I want to change it, to reshape it in my own image, to get rid of all the Heather Chandlers and put myself in their shoes, but everyone and everything holds me back; I'm not pretty enough, not outgoing enough, not getting good enough grades, not making the right connections. Heather doesn't even let me go to Remington parties anymore. How am I meant to improve my station if the tools to do so have been taken away from me? All I have is a well-worn copy of Catcher in the Rye and a lot of ugly green clothing.

It could always be worse. I'm not Martha Dumptruck; I'm apparently thin and kind of pretty, even though I see neither of those when I look in the mirror, and people like me enough for me to be a Heather, even if I'm at the very bottom of that rung on the totem pole. Some people would say that it makes me a bad person to make fun of Dumptruck, but it's really all that keeps me going. That sounds pathetic, I know...but it is. Besides, it's her fault. If she lost two hundred pounds and did something with her hair, she could be cool too.

So I use the little bit of power I have at my disposal on Dumptruck, and I cry myself to sleep every night. Sounds good.

Heather and Heather like it, anyway. Veronica used to like it, but she's been a bit iffy lately. I think Heather puts too much stock in Veronica. She doesn't like me or Heather that much, so she's trying to remake Veronica in her own image, but I don't see it working. Veronica's a nice girl and really beautiful, and I'm glad I'm friends with her, but that's just her problem. She's too nice. She acts all angsty and pretends she knows how horrible the universe is, but I doubt she'd believe me if I told her what it's really like. She doesn't realize how much of a necessary evil all this stuff is.

She does help me purge, though, and I'm glad she does that. My parents beat me if I come home with red knuckles.

So I stand in my stall in the bathroom, the one that always clogs the drains and the teachers send out an announcement over the PA system and everyone snickers at me, and she stands there next to be with the door locked to keep out Heather and Heather fixing their makeup and laughing, and I clutch Catcher in the Rye to my chest.

"Did she have the pie or the ice cream for dessert?" Heather McNamara snickers, lapsing into her 'game show announcer' voice. "And the winner _is_..."

"Gross, Heather," Heather Chandler moans, "Bulimia is so '87."

"Don't listen to them." She can see the pain on my face.

"You know, Holden Caulfield would never put up with their bogus nonsense." I manage a weak smile.

"Well, you better move Holden out of the way, or else he's gonna get spewed."

\---

There's still some time left in lunch, and Heather wants to finish up her lunchtime poll. "You inherit five million dollars from the Publisher's Sweepstakes, but aliens are going to destroy the world in two days..." I don't understand Heather.

The only person she and Veronica really have left is that new kid, though. He's cute and kind of scary. Heather McNamara catches our gaze. "Jason Dean. He's in my American History class."

I can see Veronica roll the name around in her head.

She grabs the clipboard and glides towards him.


End file.
